A Maiden's Lament.

The Fallout.

I'm ever on the move--
Like a travelling scholar:
Every day, and every night;
Somewhere in gutters,
I will away my unpalatable sleep,
With street masters--
Darlings of fate!

I'm burdened with misery,
My head's heavy like a sack full of cement!
I have nowhere to lay it,
Even the pen wherein was I birthed:
Needs me no longer,
Neither do I...

*
Into pieces, taboo I smashed--
Denouncing and evading our way:
Bartering little lasses to their grandfathers' agemates,
What an archaic and barbaric honour!
Maybe ancestors and gods of the land I annoyed...
But I fret not,
Should they me offer a hearing:
My decision I will justify,
On the thresholds of the land beyond,
Where grapes of justice are in abundance;
And are out dished--
Regardless of race, tribe, and what wonder between our legs lies...

*
The man from whose seed I sprouted,
Is angry like a tiger.
He is spitting venomous threats,
And cursing every soul under his wretched roof.
For once, I made him lose,
After wasting time salivating,
For a bunch of wealth--
And another title.
I ruined him,
He blurts.

The tiger has befriended chang'aa;
To appease anger and burry shame.
But when they violently disagree,
He crawls home like a baby, whimping and whining,
Like a bitch on heat.
He rains on mother,
Fists and abuses,
Oh, poor woman!
She must pay,
For bearing bigheaded girls.... 

   *
In the name of hell,
He curses,
Mother--
She wasted his energy,
Upon forgoing sleep,
In a losing game...

Countless times,
He wishes,
His seed fell among thorns,
Or on a rock.
I wouldn't have seen light!

The fate of his lineage,
Remains bleak.
So,
Thirst for heirs--
Just enough to make a football team,
Persuades him,
To buy many a woman,
Sleep less;
Worker harder,
But bow out,
The saddest man in the world!

His simba,
Is a women's no go zone.
Countless times,
He's divorced mother,
To accompany me to nowhere...

Women,
He swears,
Are bad.
Damn bad.
Venomous pythons,
Concealed in rusty cloak of beauty!

*
By the knife,
That ate his childhood,
Father solemnly swore:
My throat he'll slit,
Thus throw a feast for dogs;
If on his soil I step...

He lauds Nanjala,
Even when he's numbed by chang'aa!
In the night,
Staggering home:
In sand signatures he draws with urine,
And competes with owls to hoot!

Nanjala had not,
Given him a headache,
When he salivated...
Some awful creature,
On a golden chariot emerged,
And she said nothing;
She just left,
Throwing dreams into darkness.

Still innocent she was,
Her breasts were mere protrusions--
Two pimples!
And village boys,
Busy hovered around,
Eavesdropping,
Timing,
Like a hawk,
Ready to snatch a chick.


  Robbed.

I found refuge in a house of christ,
When wandering at first.
His handman therein seemed kind...
Well. He assured us to find,
Invaluable treasure,
From the kingdom above,
Which he seemed disinterested in!

Desperate eyes,
At him stared expectantly--
Therein for seasons had camped:
Tilling, weeding and harvesting,
To nourish the man of God.
For nights on end,
They sing, dance and chant prayers--
Till stars and the moon out bow.
To have a bite of the bread of salvation,
Oh, is no easy brother!

Virgins of my salt,
To him appeal most.
They have ripe breasts-- ever erect,
Like a clock's arm,
Indicating 12 noon...
He sexpiritually caresses them,
During exorcing!

On him I spat,
When into mine he slid,
During exorcising!
Obstinate demons,
He deems are best conquered,
By caressing women's milk bags...

Loose again I broke thus,
Away from our Father I ran:
Plunging deep into the city's dark heart,
Thirsty for a juicy living...

Oh, my people,
Herein:
Life leans on loose threads of fear--
Bullets and batons sing;
We everyday groan and mourn!

And to appease the god of hunger,
Everyone must eat from their plate.
Whoever has no papers,
Grapple for crumbs with paupers in bins...
So for a meal:
I barter my virginity...

If men's thirst,
Isn't at home quenched,
We make a kill!
They dance,
They pant,
They scream,
As we relieve them,
Of their notes.

Somewhere,
A degree holder,
Earns by engaging brains;
Anywhere,
A sex merchant,
Earns by opening thighs,
Tax-free!

Woes of Westernism.
My people are up in arms,
Demonizing all good we deem:
Miniskirts, tights and micro-tops--
Fashion trends of our time...

Folks at me stare--
Disgusted. And with wonder eyes,
As if on myself I've shitted...
Women hurl stones of abuses,
That a slut, whore and bitch I am,
Because with passion I've embraced:
Westernism... 

So out I let milk bags pop,
And expose my sacred thighs,
For the world to see.
But I'm just a helpless slave to fashion,
As they are to culture!

Men whimper like dogs on heat,
When they glance at my breasts-- full and firm;
Unlike their womens' at home,
Which dropped during independence--
And are ever skinny and flat like slippers. 

Their spears itch;
With uncontrollable erections,
And their adulterous eyes:
Everywhere escort me!

Village women cry out their hearts:
They mourn the generation they sire,
Now thriving on menacles of falsehood,
With no point of departure,
Between vices and virtues,
Between a truth and a lie. 

Heads they burry in shame,
When sons around walk;
Whilst out stick their buttocks,
And their baggy trousers sweep the ground like brooms,
So swaggerific eh!

A current woman I am:
Immune to dictates of culture.
Unlike my grandmother,
I can't wear long robes like a nun,
Or ape muslim maidens--
They dress like ninjas,
Hence concealing the obvious beneath,
To appease the gods of culture...

 Men are Gone; What Remains for Maidens?

A woman,
Complete,
In my society's eye:
Must bear and suckle...

No honour's reserved,
For me, wandering afar:
If my parents I deny grandchildren,
If God's call to procreate I ignore,
And deny this soil statesmen thus...

*
I am bewitched by the scent,
And opulence of a handsome man--
A man of style, reason and substance,
Who can't starve me with stones,
When I badly need bread;
Who can't offer me a snake,
When I'm dying to eat Tilapia;
Who can't adorn in a chameleon's coat,
And wander aimlessly near men of class,
Who knows secrets of the land...

I desperately desire one thus,
Yes I do!
To hold and kiss me,
In the morning when it's cold,
In the afternoon when it's hot,
And in the evening when it's dark.

I've been waiting for one,
I see no one,
Oh, are they taken?
If men are gone,
What remains for maidens?

*
Sons of this soil,
Are trapped in thighs of cities,
They left looking for a life,
For soil isn't the only thing today;
Who has time to grow yams,
That will soon be eaten by moles?
It's been grabbed after all!

And man cannot live on soil alone!

They have been lured thus,
By wonders of civilization,
Big women of substance--
Sexually starved,
Have dragged them deep,
Into their bushy vineyards,
Forever working therein,
Who remembers home?

In the dark,
Others established,
Kingdoms and empires.
Therein, drugs and crime,
Bring surprises in excess--
Infections, madness and death are prime,
So men are too busy to keep women,
Can they even serve them well?

Most vulnerable men,
Have been enslaved by the bottle,
They drink like fish,
Worship it loudly,
And speak in tongues whilst,
In their veins it flows!

At boiling point,
They violently tremble,
Like a chick heavily rained on,
With drooping arms...

Their stained teeth,
Are like a grasshopper's mandibles!
Their spears have been gnashed,
They will never erect to pierce meat!

Some sold souls,
They walk with stones in their chests,
Their brains are full of soot,
Oh-ho-ho-ho...
Once bound to a woman,
She will never moan and gasp passionately,
Amid nonrhythmic thrusts--
Sex boring!

They batter and starve women,
Then butcher them,
When bitter waters of life,
Become hard to bear...
So where can I find a man?
If all are gone,
What remains for maidens?

 (c) Wafula p'Khisa.